<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Dare to Dream by MaybeItWasMemphis</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29269962">Dare to Dream</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItWasMemphis/pseuds/MaybeItWasMemphis'>MaybeItWasMemphis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Nightmare on Elm Street (Movies 1984-1994)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Dark Romance, F/F, Knifeplay, Murder, Sociopath character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:34:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29269962</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItWasMemphis/pseuds/MaybeItWasMemphis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nancy’s messed-up daughter meets Freddy, and it’s a match made in serial killer heaven.</p><p>This story has no redeeming qualities and was written while I was having a bipolar episode. It’s darkness and not much else. </p><p>Please, heed the trigger warnings inside.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Freddy Krueger/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: 1, 2, please don’t sue. 3, 4, I don’t want lawyers at my door. 5, 6, I don’t own shit. 7, 8, to write this, I stayed up late. 9, 10, I was a smartass again. </p><p>Author’s Note: This story is an odd mix of the original and remake. It contains elements from both, although there is only one Freddy in my book, and that is Robert Englund. <br/>Yes, Freddy is a pedophile. Watch the movies and look beyond the humor. The female lead in this story is fifteen.<br/>The lead female character is a highly functioning sociopath. There is no hero here. </p><p>TRIGGER WARNINGS:<br/>Blood and knife play.<br/>(Dead) Adult/teenager relationship.<br/>Medication purging.<br/>This whole story should be a damn trigger warning. Reader beware.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“I don’t paint dreams or nightmares; I paint my own reality.”</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>
    <span class="u">- Frida Kahlo</span>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>        My mom started giving me a weird vitamin when we moved into her childhood home. She said it was because there was something wrong with the town’s water supply, but the tap water tasted just fine to me. It was clear, bland, and cold. It was water.</p><p>        I had started taking the pills when I was twelve. I was now fifteen, and I had noticed something. I hadn’t had a single dream in four years. Not since we moved to Springwood from Chicago after my parents had divorced.</p><p>        I asked my mom about it once, but she had just chuckled, shrugged her shoulders, and insisted that some people just didn’t dream. Google said otherwise. Everyone dreamed. It was a normal part of the sleep cycle. In fact, it was actually unhealthy not to dream. If you didn’t dream, it meant that you weren’t entering into REM sleep, a type of rest the body relied on to recharge. The only known way to stop a person from dreaming was through the use of a controversial drug called Hypnocil. In the 80s’ and 90s’ it had been used in Ohio after outbreaks of teenagers dying from night terrors.</p><p>        Wait a damn minute. I lived in a small town in Ohio. My mom had grown up here in the 80s’. She was also overprotective to the extreme. She took helicopter parenting to new heights. I was homeschooled and wasn’t allowed to have friends outside of my homeschool study group. Was my lunatic mother actually drugging me because she was worried I was going to die from a bad dream?</p><p>        That afternoon, when my mom left the house to go to the grocery store, I snuck into her bathroom and took a peek inside her medicine cabinet. Sure as shit, a bottle labeled Hypnocil that was prescribed to me was sitting on the top shelf.</p><p>        That batshit woman was drugging me. Ha. Not anymore.</p><p>        That night, when my mom laid my vitamin on the table next to my dinner plate, I hid it under my tongue and spit it out as soon as the crazy bitch’s back was turned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>        “One, two, Freddy’s coming for you…”</em>
</p><p>        Okay. My first dream in years was going to be a nightmare. Awesome.</p><p>
  <em>        “Three, four, better lock your door…”</em>
</p><p>        Well, the house kind of looked like mine…if I was living in a post-apocalyptic universe, ala Tris from <em>Insurgent</em>. Against my better judgment and because it was a dream and I had nothing else to do, I pulled the door, and it gave easily for something that was boarded up.</p><p>
  <em>        “Five, six, grab your crucifix…”</em>
</p><p>        Okay, who was singing, and why the fuck did I need a crucifix?</p><p>
  <em>        “Seven, eight, gonna stay up late…”</em>
</p><p>        Yeah, kids, I was always way too tired to do that. Thank you fucking Mommy.</p><p>
  <em>        “Nine, ten, never sleep again.”</em>
</p><p>        Okay. Whoever wrote that nursery rhyme was more messed up than whoever had written <em>Ring Around the Rosey</em>.  </p><p>        “No. That one’s about the black death. Freddy only kills one at a time.” A little girl with pretty blonde hair tied back in a bow and wearing a blue dress not seen on little girls outside the British royal family since the 1960s spoke to me with a creepy little smile on her face.</p><p>        “Who’s Freddy?” And how the fuck had she heard what I was thinking? Oh, right. Dream.</p><p>        “I’m Freddy, sweetcheeks,” a deep voice growled from behind me.</p><p>        I spun around and came face to face with a man so horribly burned that if we were in the real world, I would have immediately called 911 for help.</p><p>        “Aw, aren’t you sweet?” Freddy gave me a twisted grin and pointed a hand at me. It wasn’t a normal hand. It was wearing a glove, and every finger contained a long, sharp blade that would but Wolverine to shame. “And just who are you, missy?”</p><p>        “Dobbi,” I answered without fear. This was a dream. Freddy couldn’t kill me.</p><p>        “First kid in twenty years and I get a fucking house-elf,” Freddy mumbled.</p><p>        Good to know dream villains kept up on mainstream literature.</p><p>        “Now,” Freddy started to circle me menacingly. “I know you live on Elm Street, but what’s your last name, bitch?”</p><p>        “Campbell-Hughes,” I glared at him. “And don’t call me a bitch, bitch.”</p><p>        Freddy stopped dead in his tracks. “And relation to Nancy Campbell?”</p><p>        Good. I wasn’t going to get stabbed for calling the charcoal boy a bitch. That would probably wake me up, and this was just too interesting a conversation to pass up.</p><p>        “She’s my bitch of a mother,” I answered.</p><p>        “Mommy issues?” Freddy smirked evilly.</p><p>        “More than Playboy,” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest.</p><p>        “I have issues with your mommy, too,” he winked at me. “That’s why you, baby doll, get to live…for now. When you wake up, ask mommy dearest who Freddy Krueger is.”</p><p>        Freddy snapped his fingers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        I sat up in bed with a start even though I hadn’t been scare of my dream.</p><p>        “What the hell was that?” I mumbled to myself.</p><p>        “What was what?” As usual, Mom walked into my room without an invitation.</p><p>        “Weird dream,” I replied without thinking.</p><p>        Mom froze in the process of restocking my sock drawer. “What did you dream about, honey?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, but she still sounded…scared would be the best term for it.</p><p>        “This weird dude named Freddy Krueger,” I pushed myself out of bed. “He was kind of cool. Creepy song, though…”</p><p>        Mom stumbled back into the dresser, and I made my way into my bathroom to take a shower. Just who exactly was Freddy anyway? My mom was an ice queen; nothing scared her…but Freddy sure as fuck did.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>        That night, Mom did everything short of shoving the pill down my throat, so I’d had no choice but to take my a ‘vitamin.’</p><p>        I might not have been allowed to talk to Freddy, but I was able to do some research. I googled Freddy Krueger and what I got were a bunch of archived newspaper articles dating all the way back to the 1970s.</p><p>        Fred or ‘Freddy’ Krueger had been suspected in a string of serial murders. The serial murders of children that he was later charged with. The charges had been dropped because of a simple clerical error. The parents of Elm Street, my street, where six kids of the murdered children had lived, decided to take the law into their own hands. They burned Fred Krueger alive in a boiler room. The whole, true story of his death didn’t come out until the 1980s. The whistleblower? My grandfather who had covered up the murder in the first place. After Mom’s friends started dying in their sleep after claiming that Freddy Krueger was stalking them in their dreams, he came forward.</p><p>        What. The. Fuck?! My grandparents had killed someone. My mom had conveniently left out all of the deaths that had occurred on Elm Street when we moved to town. Which is actually when she started drugging me. What the hell was wrong with the Campbell family?!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*WARNING* Snowflakes turn back now—uncomfortable content between a dead adult dream demon and a teenage girl. Don’t say you weren’t warned.</p><p>*TRIGGER WARNING* Medication purging and blood play.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         The next night, I went to the bathroom and made myself throw up the Hypnocil. When I laid down to sleep, I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.</p><p>        “Hello, my little house elf, miss me?” Freddy was leaning against the boiler that I’m pretty sure that he had died in.</p><p>        “I know who you are.”</p><p>        “And yet you still don’t dear me,” Freddy tisked and shook a bladed finger at me. “Not wise, sweetcheeks. You must know what I did to mommy’s friends.”</p><p>        “Karma,” I shrugged. “For what their parents did to you. You won’t kill me. You need me. I’m not my mother. I can barely stand that uptight bitch on a good day.” I smirked. “I read the newspaper articles and between the lines. I know why you’re so pissed at my mom, and I can offer you what she couldn’t.”</p><p>        Freddy made a wooden chair appear out of thin air. He took a seat and crossed his arms over his chest with a smirk on his burnt face. “Explain. Come now, be a good whore, show your work.”</p><p>        “I’m the only kid in Springwood who is capable of dreaming…and I’m forced to attend a weekly study group with a bunch of fundie Christian assholes who would probably stop taking their ‘vitamins,’ I used air quotes, ‘if I were to write a good enough paper on why God thinks not dreaming is a sin against nature,” I smirked, loving that I could let out the darkest part of my nature here in the dreamscape. “I can get you souls.”</p><p>        “So far, so good, baby doll.” Freddy nodded. “You explained why I need you. Now why is Freddy mad at mommy, and what could a little whore like you offer me?”</p><p>        “You never wanted to kill my bitch of a mother.” I shook my head and took a step closer. “You wanted her, wanted to possess her, I suspect going all the way back to when you were still alive. You’re pissed because she rejected you, because she didn’t want to be <em>your</em> <em>girl</em> –”</p><p>        I must have struck a nerve because I didn’t get to finish speaking. Freddy grabbed my upper arms and slammed me against the (luckily cool) boiler, my head striking the metal and his gloved hand slicing deep gashes into my left shoulder. “And what can you off me that your frigid bitch of a mother couldn’t?” He growled in my face. “Answer me, bitch!” He violently shook me.</p><p>        I didn’t care that he was hurting me. I looked him dead in the eye. “I can say I’m sorry for what my grandparents did to you. I can offer you me. I’ll be everything my bitch of a mother was too scared to be. I’ll be your girl.”</p><p>        “You sure, sweetcheeks? Once you’re Freddy’s, it’s forever.” He finally kissed me. It wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t romantic. It was possessive and violent. He was biting and roughly sucking just as much as he was actually kissing me. I fucking adored it. He broke away and smiled lewdly at my bleeding lower lip. He took his thumb (the non-bladed one) and almost sweetly collected the blood. “If you leave me, precious, I’ll fucking kill you and everyone you love…slowly.”</p><p>        “I don’t love anyone,” I replied honestly. I had known for a long time that I wasn’t like other people. I didn’t really feel much, and I never had. I believe the clinical term for my personality was sociopathic.</p><p>        “We’ll see, princess.” He brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked off my lip. “We’ll see.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, it is unhealthy not to dream. In fact, it is actually impossible not to dream. No drug or even brain tumor can stop you from dreaming. </p><p>Interesting facts about dreaming:</p><p>You dream every night. You just don’t remember most of your dreams.</p><p>Yes, some people have had night terrors and had heart attacks and died. It’s RARE.</p><p>You can only dream about people you know or have seen and of places you know. If you’re dreaming and a location or face seems blurry, it’s because your brain is trying to imagine something that it has never seen.</p><p>There are ways to tell if you’re dreaming beyond pinching (which rarely actually works, FYI). Look for a clock. If you can’t see the time or the clock face is blurry, you’re dreaming. You can also draw something (smiley face, flower) in the palm of your hand before bed. If you look at your hand and your artwork is missing, you’re dreaming. This worked for me when I was having nightmares in my teens. I would draw a peace sign in my hand every night before bed, and when I saw it gone in my dream, the nightmare would end, and I’d usually wake up.</p><p>If you realize you’re dreaming, you can take control of the dream-like it’s your own personal dreamscape. It’s called lucid dreaming and requires practice. I’ve managed it only once, but I went to Hogwarts and hung out with Professor Snape before he took me to a Brantley Gilbert concert, so it was memorable.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>